Ersterbend
by Stradivari
Summary: Stars make beautiful shapes across the sky. Three stars can not draw Herve, yet three stars can draw a cross, depending on how you arrange them. A life is a life. And that is why you let him die.


**E R S T E R B E N D**

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_Esterbend: German: Commonly used in music notation for 'Dying away'._

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_He blossomed._

Created, whose creators hid at the beauty of their art, who sought to burn; as Mars to the beauty of Venus. Whose own embers wove the cloak around his jealous god. And they sought to punish him, to cut the beauty away, until pieces so small, so defined, so finely analyzed fell…

Yet he pieced them back, into a new face- not a mask- but his soul, unchangeable. Unyielding.

It was so brief, no one caught the expression; so thin, the east wind shrouded the spark; so sweet, that his lover only caught its echoing scent. Then all of that was gone.

_He danced._

A languid elegance, fluid like the flight of Mendelssohn, Chopin…yet emotionless. Ireland was not there, it was a place, nothing more. Steps that traced the weakness of those around him; cracks in the parquetry- yet seamless in his own perfection. The perfection that blossomed in winter, his petals kissed by ice instead of dew. It was a flaw that only he could see, a discords only he sung.

More beautiful than Debussy.

To everything else, he was blind in an ocean of black, and only his lover saw the times when he surfaced to breathe, surfaced to drink in the stars.

And all seven times, his lover spoke no words.

The stars blinked. Then the waves claimed him back.

The strings played. Faure or Bartok, no one knew. What they saw was the grandeur, Rome, Troy- all the same. It was his own era; move he did not, yet dance he did; waltz, bolero- all the same. The world came to him, his lover and I. He held that world in his hand- _his world_; pianist fingers curling like summer leaves.

Embrace, his lover kept- and I, he passed. Did I not save that lover's life twice over? Was that my murder of me?

But I know. I know that I am not a murderer. I am only a martyr. A martyr who has lost faith.

_He played._

Keys black and white. Roses red, black and white. Blood- it was only red. So plain. So simple. Played silently; a child's tearful face buried within the caressing folds of petals, long unseen, long grey with forgotten memories. The whitewashed painting was the colours unfurling, and this, his aria, an autumn with green leaves and golden sunshine. An autumn he played so he would not wilt as all mortals should.

This was the kiss on the glass, a misty print, like the plumage of a nightingale's breast. Did he play that too, along with the phantom songs of hills swathed in emerald? For what he played, it was a poet's charm; more than a Mesmer, more than love. And the emerald was cheap, cut glass.

The savant does not love.

The savant only plays.

_He dies._

It is a curious thing- the vibrancy does not dim, the shards of his brilliance does not flutter to earth, where I could hope to catch them. Water, that slips through your fingers, even now.

They spin, instead, a furious dance, the storm, coming too late, too late, too late. They spiral, a pillar of latticed silk, spider-spun as if reaching…eager to fade, to fade, to fade. And then I realize too, that the savant is to wilt, to wilt, to wilt; to echo, echo, echo.

And it was then, as the petals that he pieced and clothed him rotted away. He cries, and his lover hears. He cries again and I listen. Beyond the veil, plays Mozart, and the savant kisses my hand; as if an invitation to dance. He beckons to his lover.

The hand touches the mortal face.

Blue sparks do not passion the bloodless lips. Black hair sweeps his brow as the curtains close; blue indigo eyes. A jealous god looks on.

Empires fall for their emperors.

The savant falls for his lover.

And I fell for him.

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**Author's Notes: There is a good chance I might take this idea and write it properly some day. Its too…vague, here, I think- due to my suck-ful-ness. Explanations: There are two possibilities for this, the second one I discovered when someone said that was what they thought it meant. –shrug-. Anyway, the first intended was that, the savant was, obviously, Artemis, and the lover was Butler, so the fic was from Holly's PoV. Second one was slightly reversed. Artemis, LoverHolly, Butler PoV. The whole thing comes from different lights when you think about it in different perspectives, and T has given me a seal of approval! (-hardly ever gets above a 5/10 from T. So she feels proud.)**

**-Please review, and CC, and tell me what you think. :P**


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